


And Everything In Its Place

by Herenya_writes



Category: Star Trek: The Original Series, Star Trek: The Original Series (Movies)
Genre: Jim is an understanding husband, M/M, Spock uses organization as meditation, based off a tumblr post, character analysis kinda, five plus one fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-28
Updated: 2020-07-28
Packaged: 2021-03-06 07:46:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,446
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25579804
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Herenya_writes/pseuds/Herenya_writes
Summary: Alternatively Titled: Five Times Spock Uses Organization As Meditation and One Time Someone HelpsSpock blinked, focusing once more on the objects in front of him. He had learned early in his time at the Academy that organizing things helped his mind reach a similar state when his body was unable to calm enough to achieve a useful level of meditation.
Relationships: James T. Kirk/Spock
Comments: 20
Kudos: 143





	And Everything In Its Place

**Author's Note:**

> This fic was based off of a Tumblr post about Spock being neurodivergent and using organization to help calm his mind when he's anxious/stressed. It was beta'd by the lovely Marlinspirkhall.

_ Rejecting the VSA _

The light drapes that hung over his window did little to stop the warm, almost harsh, light of Vulcan from entering his rooms. It fell upon the tile floor, tinging the ground red where it struck, a splash of color against what was an otherwise bland space. Four walls, a bed, a dresser, a closet, two bookshelves, a meditation alcove, and a small number of personal items. An impeccably kept room, worthy of a Vulcan.

He looked at it with new eyes now. He, Spock of Vulcan, son of Sarek, had rejected the Vulcan Science Academy and all he had known.

The human part of himself—the part that had put him in this position to begin with, the part he had spent two decades denying until this moment—urged him to sit heavily upon his simple bed, to sigh and allow his emotions to surge to the front of his mind. He ignored that impulse. There was a shuttle bound for Earth that departed at 0600 tomorrow, and although Sarek had given him three days to gather his belongings and leave the house Spock found he had no desire to linger. It was logical that he determine what items he needed to bring now, rather than delay until the morning.

If his hands shook slightly as he closed the door to his room, he ignored it. A stack of boxes sat at the foot of his bed, likely ordered by Sarek the instant he had turned down the VSA. With careful, deliberate movements he picked up the first box and placed it on his bed before turning to his closet. 

He was leaving for Starfleet Academy in the morning and thus would require very few possessions beyond his clothes and a few amenities that would be easily transported and stored. With that in mind, he opened his closet and began to organize his clothing in terms of the warmth it would provide him.

San Francisco was not Vulcan.

His fingers moved almost of their own accord, discarding the lightest of his robes without a second thought, even as his mind wandered. He had applied to the Academy several months ago without informing his parents as Starfleet seemed a logical alternative to the VSA should he fail to secure his place there. The thought of being able to pursue scientific advancements while in deep space was appealing, although he had not fully considered it. The VSA was where he belonged, as a Vulcan.

And he had rejected it.

His fingers skimmed across a light blue robe, the one he had worn to his mother’s birthday dinner a few months prior. It was an illogical tradition, celebrating the day of someone’s birth, an event they had no control over, but it was one of the few things his mother insisted on celebrating, and Sarek had eventually bowed to his wife’s request. 

They had been...content that evening. His studies had been going well, and he had been preparing to take the entrance exam to the VSA. His mother had recounted a story of her and Sarek’s first meeting, and although his father had given no outward sign of his affection, Spock had felt the love in his gaze.

There had been only anger and disappointment this afternoon. 

He shook his head and pulled the robe off of its hanger and added it to the small pile behind him. He would take six of his heaviest robes and three of the lighter ones. They would suffice for now, although he would need to acquire more garments on Earth. With that task complete, he swiftly folded the robes and placed them in the box, leaving the blue one to the side to wear when he departed tomorrow. Then, he turned his attention to the rest of his room. 

Over the years, he had spent only a small portion of his time outside of his sleep and meditation in this room, and its decorations reflected that. On the wall above his bed hung his lyre, underneath which was a small placard documenting the fact that he had achieved second place in the music festival he had once entered. The opposite wall was dominated by a large window he often left open, flanked by two shelves which were weighed down by an array of physical books.

He crossed over to the closest shelf and settled down in front of it. It would be illogical to take books that were readily available via PADD, especially when he had little space to do so, and yet he found he could not simply leave the titles he had read and reread. His fingers drifted over the spines. The collection itself had been a gift from his mother when he was three years old, and it had only grown since then. 

He took a deep breath to center himself, pushing back the emotions that rushed to the forefront of his mind at the thought of his mother. Then he began to pull the books off their shelves and rearrange them by the date he had received them. Books that had been bestowed on the same day were then alphabetized by the author’s last name. 

He spent twenty-three minutes and nineteen seconds organizing both bookshelves. When he had finished, however, he could not consider the time to be wasted. His mind was clearer than it had been since he had strode out of the VSA that afternoon, the words of the elders echoing in his head. He had known, then, that he would never be able to find contentment or belonging among his father’s people. Despite his accomplishments, they still gazed upon him with disdain and surprise. How could a half-breed succeed as he had? Now, however, he was at peace with his decision. He would find his place among his mother’s people.

He held no illusions about Starfleet. He would be an outcast there, but as he had sorted through the books his mother had given him he had been reminded of the open-mindedness that existed among at least a portion of humanity. To expect to be accepted instantly was foolish, but in the back of his mind, a small flame of hope flickered.

The tile was cool under his fingers as he pushed himself to his feet, his mind now settled. Four minutes and three seconds later, he had finished packing his belongings. His lyre, three of his mother’s favorite titles, and two changes of bedding went into the second box, while two pairs of boots and his personal PADD went into the first. Into a smaller third box, he carefully placed his incense, candles, and folded meditation mat.

He stepped back, eyes fixed on the three innocuous boxes sitting on his bed, disturbing the sheets with their weight. Here was his entire life on Vulcan distilled. He felt the urge to laugh at the sight, but he pushed it down and instead strode forward to shift the boxes to the floor. They might contain his physical possessions, but they could not begin to encompass his memories and the lessons he had learned here.

Once the boxes were settled, he straightened his sheets and cast a final glance around the room. It was immaculate. If his father were to step inside and look, he would see only the reflection of a perfect Vulcan son. Spock did not expect him to.

Turning away, he crossed the short distance to his door and stepped through, posture straight and shoulders squared. It was time to face his mother.

. . .

_ Meeting the New Captain _

The light of the ‘fresher where Spock stood cast a harsh light over his makeup palettes, lipstick containers, and other supplies. It was far from ideal lighting for his typical morning ablutions, but he had learned to adjust over the years. He had never before shared the space with another crew member, as there had always been enough empty cabins elsewhere to maintain his preferred privacy. Now, however, he shared the facility with the new captain of the  _ Enterprise _ . The man had brought with him several additional crew members, and as Captain Pike’s old quarters were undergoing repairs and renovations, the captain had been assigned the room next to Spock’s.

He had believed himself ready to meet the man who was to be his new captain. Like all other crew members, he had been informed of Captain Pike’s promotion and decision to leave the  _ Enterprise _ two months ago. In the interim time, Spock had devoted a significant portion of his time—an average of two hours and six minutes every day—to learning about the new captain.

His name was James T. Kirk, the youngest captain in the ‘Fleet. Despite this, every record Spock could find on the man showed that he was deserving of the position. In addition to his unprecedented scores on a number of the Academy’s exams, he had authored three papers. 

The first two focused on the ethics of First Contact and the responsibility that lay with the Captain overseeing such missions to make the calls that would best help both the native species and Starfleet. One had been written as his senior thesis, the other after his first year aboard a starship. The second was far more nuanced but held to the same principles as the previous and now included first-hand experiences. The third paper had been written three years later and had discussed theoretical means of harvesting the power of black holes. The science was ahead of its time but theoretically possible, and the paper showed thoughtful consideration and incredible confidence.

Those were a mere footnote on his records, however. The man had achieved much already in his Starfleet career, and through his files, Spock had believed he knew what to expect from the man.

He did not.

Spock blinked, focusing once more on the objects in front of him. He had learned early in his time at the Academy that organizing things helped his mind reach a similar state when his body was unable to calm enough to achieve a useful level of meditation. 

Previously, his makeup had been organized first into types and then into their frequency of use. Now, he separated the containers once more into their categories: eyeshadow, blush, eyeliner, mascara, lipstick, tinted chapstick, moisturizer, and so on. Then, he set to work organizing them by their level of color saturation. 

His fingers moved quickly, and as they did, he felt some of the tension that had lingered since Captain Kirk had beamed aboard three hours, thirty-seven minutes, and six seconds ago bleed away. His tension was not from a dislike of the man, rather, its source lay in the...emotional reaction he had felt upon seeing the man. 

Captain Kirk had beamed aboard the  _ Enterprise _ halfway through Alpha shift, which had meant that Spock was among the highest-ranking officers on duty and had been present for his arrival. When the man had appeared, it had been with what Spock could only term an easy smile. He had greeted each of them by their name and offered a handshake. Then he had turned to Spock and, instead of reaching out his hand had held up the ta’al and repeated the greeting Spock had so often heard on his home planet. For 1.32 seconds, he had been too surprised to react. Then his mind had returned to him and he had copied the gesture and finished the greeting, nodding his respect as he welcomed the man aboard.

Captain Kirk had spent the remainder of Alpha shift touring the  _ Enterprise _ , and from the chatter that had been present in the hallways as Spock had made his way back to his quarters, he was making an impression on the crew.

He took a steadying breath, and moved the eyeshadows and blushes to the side, satisfied in their sorting. 

Never before had he served under a human who had commanded such immediate respect from him. Perhaps he could say that he was biased toward the man, having spent so much time researching his achievements, but Spock had done similarly when he had first begun to serve under Captain Pike. Although he respected the man who had been his captain, it was not the instant loyalty he had felt surge within him when Captain Kirk had shimmered into existence on the transporter pad. 

He did not know what it meant, this sudden rise of emotion, but he could admit to himself—in the privacy of his mind—that it was not entirely unwelcome. 

The lid of the lipstick tube he held clicked as he opened it and turned the bottom so that the color was more readily visible. He then opened the one next to it and held it to the light. After a moment of consideration, he placed the latter first in the order of saturation, followed by the three other colors he had in his possession. He was about to move on to his mascara and eyeliner when the door on the other side of the ‘fresher slid open.

“My apologies, Mister Spock,” the captain declared with another one of those smiles that seemed to come so naturally to the man. “I didn’t realize you were using the ‘fresher. Let me know when you’re done?”

The words were out of Spock’s mouth almost before he thought of them. “I do not mind sharing the facilities if I will not be in your way.” The ‘fresher was separated into two sections. One contained a counter and two sinks, along with mirrors and drawers for each occupant, while behind another wall were the toilet and shower. It was the most privacy that could be afforded given the limited space available.

The captain nodded. “Fine by me. I’ll grab my clothes and hit the showers.” The door slid closed as the captain disappeared for twenty-six seconds before opening once more. Spock kept his attention focused on his task as the man stepped past him. The door to the shower opened and closed before Spock looked back up.

He finished the rest of his organizing quickly. Three minutes and seventeen seconds after he had heard the water turn on, Spock had finished his task and placed his makeup in its assigned drawer. He then left the small room, absent-mindedly calculating how long the repairs to the Captain's quarters would take.

. . .

_ The Tholian Web _

Air aboard the  _ Enterprise _ was carefully cleaned and recycled throughout the entire ship, and as such, the majority of the communal spaces all carried the same bland scent. The few exceptions were the engineering rooms and their sharp smell of dilithium and electricity, the medbay with its almost harsh antiseptic and faint traces of iron Spock doubted the human crewmembers could smell, and the labs. 

The labs smelled sterile and clean. The scent wasn’t as abrasive as the medbay, diluted as it was by the faint traces left in the air by whatever experiments were running. At the moment, the air in Lab 3B was dry and carried hints of phosphorus, calcium, magnesium, copper, and iron as a result of the experiments currently being done on a number of plants in the back of the room. The temperature had also been raised a few degrees to create a more ideal condition for the plants, which had been gathered during the last away mission. 

The temperature was far closer to the average temperature of Vulcan than the rest of the ship—excluding his personal quarters—and it caused the tense muscles of his shoulders and back to relax fractionally. His body was currently, as Doctor McCoy might say, ‘high strung’. The tension that lay in his muscles seemed to curl and coil, as if he were a spring being compressed to its furthest point, needing only for the object compressing it to move to snap its fullest extent in a single, violent motion.

Spock blinked. His mind was spiraling, as it had been doing for the past eleven hours, thirty-eight minutes, and fifty-one seconds. Ever since Ji—ever since the captain had vanished along with the  _ Defiant _ from their universe. 

It took a conscious effort on Spock’s part to uncurl his fingers from the fists they had made and step forward to the workstation nearest to him. This lab, out of the many on the  _ Enterprise, _ was used by the fewest number of people—only himself, Lieutenant Sulu, and four other scientists ran any experiments in it. As such, he was unlikely to be disturbed.

Unless the captain disobeyed Doctor McCoy’s instructions and left sickbay early, in which case there was a 47.356 percent chance that the man would ‘track him down’ and ask to play chess.

Spock let his eyes fall closed as he took two deep breaths. The dry air flooded his lungs, and he centered himself once more. Once he was certain he had corralled his mind enough to do so, he opened his eyes and began to pull out the various equipment stored around this workstation. Despite the relatively low number of people who utilized the space, it frequently became disorganized, as it was now.

Eventually, the beakers, heating plates, specialized tricorders, various stored chemicals, microscopes, digital scales, and other supplies laid spread out across the lab table in five neat rows. His hands brushed over the objects as he contemplated them, purposely allowing his mind to hyper-focus on their numerous properties which could aid his organizational process, leaving no room for thoughts of the captain slowly suffocating, alone in a foreign universe.

After three minutes and thirty-nine seconds, he decided that it would be logical to sort the supplies first by their size given the various storage places available to him and then by their function and frequency of use, with the objects most used to the right and those least used to the left. 

The microscopes and tricorders were the largest of the objects and went in the large sliding drawer under the lab table proper. The drawer utilized anti-gravity systems, so it could be easily opened and closed despite the weight it now contained. As he carefully placed the last tricorder, he felt more of his muscles release their tension, and he cautiously opened his mind once more to the events of the day.

Ji—the captain had nearly died today. A few more seconds stranded in that lifeless universe, and he would have. Jim had been saved because Spock had put the lives of the entire crew at risk based on his  _ theory _ , which had had very little evidence to support it. If he had been wrong, he would have sacrificed four hundred and twenty-one lives, including his own, in an illogical and frankly reckless attempt to recover his captain.

But his theory had proven correct. Jim was safely returned to their universe and the  _ Enterprise _ had escaped the Tholians’ web before any further harm could come to the ship and her crew. Instead of being reprimanded for his illogic and emotion, he was commended. 

Perhaps he was wrong to thrust so much blame upon his own shoulders. There was a 97.653 percent chance that had his situation been reversed with the captain’s, the man would have made the same calls he had made. Despite everything, the thought of Jim staring down the Tholians on the bridge brought a faint, passing smile to his face. His captain had never been one to back down when there was even the smallest chance of success.

Spock straightened the small package of calcium and closed the drawer he had been working in, but his hands were working on autopilot.

The true source of his mental disquiet lay not in his actions, but in the knowledge that even if he had no theory, no evidence, no  _ hope, _ he still would have ordered the  _ Enterprise  _ to linger. Even if all he would have been able to find was Jim’s body, he would have stayed. He would not, could not, abandon the man to the freezing aloneness of space, regardless of the consequences. 

His hands shook slightly as he opened the next drawer and began to lay the beakers inside according to their size and frequency of use. He forced himself to breathe, to read the labels on each one despite the fact that he knew all of their properties by heart, anything that would slow the torrent of his mind. By the time he closed the drawer, his hands were still, and his mind had calmed enough for him to cautiously enter it once again.

It was dangerous, this attachment he felt to his captain. Somehow, it had grown beyond the loyalty and respect of a first officer to his captain, although he did not know what name to give it. As he worked, his mind played through their interactions over the past several months, attempting to identify the moment when his regard toward the man had changed. Was it during an away mission, when the man had offered himself so that his crew could go free? During a negotiation, when he had shown his remarkable talent for discerning the truth and reaching a compromise? Or had it happened over a chess game when he had grinned and congratulated Spock on a game well played regardless of who had won?

No answer came, even after he had finished organizing the lab station and stared at it with muted satisfaction humming in his veins. He realized, however, as he gazed at the spotless table that the answer held no significance. The fact was that something had changed, and regardless of when it had happened, it  _ had _ happened, and the events of the past day were proof that it impacted his ability to perform his duties.

For some reason, instead of exacerbating the disquiet in his mind, the realization brought a wave of peace that seemed to wash over him and settle in his bones. He was powerless to deny the sway his captain held over him—it was simply one of the many laws that the universe was governed by.

. . .

_ Leaving for Gol _

The pounding of his heart nearly drowned out the sound of the door to his apartment slamming shut. He leaned against it, eyes closed, breaths coming too quickly, too shallowly. He didn’t know how long he stood there, but when he opened his eyes, he immediately closed them again because everywhere he looked there were traces of  _ him. _

Spock forced himself to stumble to the small living room and sit on the couch. The mementos from their five-year mission were out on the small coffee table, and he gazed at them as if they could give him the answers he sought. He had intended to organize them and decide which to display in his new apartment and which to keep in storage, but Jim had commed him and invited him to dinner before he had been able to begin.

A scarce three hours, eleven minutes, and forty-one seconds ago, he had looked at these tokens with fondness as he had remembered the events connected to them. Now, however, they brought only a deep sense of dread. How had he been so blind?

His hands moved of their own accord, sorting the objects by their date acquired. As he did so, he was powerless to stop his mind from replaying snippets of conversations and events, each one mocking him for his inability to see the truth that had been so plainly laid before him. 

The first was innocuous. A glass jar that fit in the palm of his hand and was filled with the coarse sand of his homeworld.

_ “Enter,” he called. The door slid open and familiar boots stepped through.  _

_ “I’m sorry, Spock, I didn’t mean to intrude on your meditation. Would you like me to come back later?” _

_ As Spock turned to face his captain, standing from his mat, he saw concern in the other man’s eyes. After everything that had happened over the past day, Jim was still concerned for him. “Your presence is never an intrusion,” he said. Those had not been the words he had intended to speak, but they were true, and they caused some of the worry in the captain’s eyes to fade away. _

_ “Well, I won’t stay long. I just wanted to bring you this.” The man held out a small jar that seemed to be filled with some kind of soil. Spock stepped forward and took it from him with a raised eyebrow. It was sand from Vulcan. “I know you already have mementos of your home and this is probably illogical, but Bones collected that from my uniform as a joke, and I thought you might like to have a piece of your planet with you out here.” _

_ Spock blinked. “Thank you, Captain.” _

His grip on the jar had tightened to the point that he was placing strain on the glass. He forced his fingers to relax as he placed it on the far left edge of the table and turned his attention to the next item. The picture frame held a pressed flower in it, and as he moved it to its place next to the jar, he heard Jim’s laughter in his mind.

_ “What is Spock gonna do with a flower, Jim?” Doctor McCoy asked, shaking his head. Spock held the plant in a gentle grip between two fingers. It was aesthetically pleasing, and he knew without asking that Jim had rejected several other specimens before presenting this one as a gift. _

_ “He could put it in a vase when we beam back up. Or press it. Or put it in the labs,” Jim suggested with laughter in his voice. Then he turned back to Spock. “I know the bracelet made you uncomfortable earlier, but those colors look good on you.” _

The memory retreated as quickly as it came, and although he didn’t want to face any more of these phantoms of his past, Spock reached for the battered book that had been his next gift. It was a copy of the _ Iliad _ , bestowed after their encounter with Elaan, the princess of Troyius.

_ “Have you read the Iliad, Spock?” Jim asked as Spock thumbed through the worn pages of the book the man had handed him.  _

_ “I have not, although I have read several adaptations of the work. It is a popular mythos on Earth, is it not?” _

_ Jim nodded. “The story of a war started by a dangerous, greedy love. Or a doomed, romantic love. Or an honest mistake.” His grin returned. “Everyone sees it differently. And of course, the story starts towards the end of the war, but still. I’m glad we managed to avoid any retellings of our own today.” _

Spock’s breath was coming in short gasps now as he pushed back the emotions that threatened to drown him. He could feel tears prickling at his eyes and burning his throat, but he ignored them, reaching instead for the next object. This one was a small circular base, and as he touched it, a holo-picture flickered to life above it of himself sitting in one of the  _ Enterprise’s  _ recreation rooms playing his lyre while a woman sat next to him and played a circular instrument of likes he had not seen before that date. The Eden people.

This time, he was not assaulted by any flood of memories, but rather by emotions. They rushed over the shields he had erected with frightening ease, a torrent of longing, regret, and sharp anger at the realization that all he had before could never be reclaimed. He took a number of steadying breaths, guilt and shame rising as the anger faded. 

Blindly, he reached for the last object to place it in the line. It was hard under his fingers, but smooth and achingly familiar. Another deep breath and then he opened his eyes to gaze at the white chess piece he held. 

_ “Captain?” _

_ “We dock on Earth in less than two hours, Spock, and then I won’t be anyone’s captain until they give me another mission—you can call me Jim,” the man said. The words were light, but Spock could hear the sorrow in them. It was Jim’s destiny to be on the bridge of a starship, and although he knew the man would return to exploring the depths of space in a relatively brief amount of time, he ached in sympathy. James Kirk was never meant to stay on land for long. _

_ “Very well, Jim. May I inquire as to the purpose of this chess piece?” Jim had stopped him in the hall outside his quarters and pressed the white knight into his hand with a smile.  _

_ “It’s a memento. Of the ship and our chess games and our command team.” The man looked down for an instant before meeting his eyes. “I want you on my ship, Spock, no matter what ship that is. But I know you were a scientist long before you were ever my first officer, so…” His words trailed away and he swallowed. “I’m grateful to have been able to count you as a member of my crew, Mister Spock.” Then, he clapped Spock on the shoulder and turned away, off to fulfill what was left of his duties as Captain. _

Spock was shaking. Every part of him trembled, not unlike the plants of his mother’s garden during a desert storm. It was too much. He knew now, what it was that he felt for his captain, had known it long ago. But now, after Jim had  _ kissed _ him at dinner and he had done nothing to stop it, he knew what they wanted was impossible. He could never be the man that Jim needed and deserved, but he would never be able to convince the stubborn human of that. Jim looked at him and saw only his strengths. He didn’t know the weaknesses and the instability that lay beneath the surface. 

Anger and guilt and longing and love and regret and sorrow and fear welled up in him until he couldn’t separate one emotion from the other. It was too much, all of it. It pushed on his mind with an insistent force that blocked out all other thought until emotion and illogic were all that was left, and it  _ terrified  _ him. 

He blinked, and the bombardment inside him quieted.

There was a way he could silence the noise, a way he could ensure that he would never harm Jim with it. The man would be angry, but he would be able to move on and continue to pursue his destiny without Spock holding him back. Yes. He would return to Vulcan in the morning and seek out the masters of  _ kolinahr. _

. . .

_ Post-Fal-tor-pan _

The air in the temple, and specifically his rooms, was still. When he had first...awoken he had not noticed it, but the longer he resided here, the more it felt wrong _ — _ as if the air was missing something that it usually had. This, of course, was illogical, as the air in the temple was the same as it had been for decades, centuries even. 

That knowledge did nothing to ease the feeling of wrongness that lurked in his mind.

That same feeling had spread to his reeducation two days, three hours, seventeen minutes, and forty-nine seconds ago. Nothing had changed about the program or the questions that he had been asked and had answered with increasing clarity and confidence, yet he felt as if something were missing from his education.

He could remember pieces of his life before now, and more came to him every day, helped by his readings of the official records of his service in Starfleet. His memories, however, seemed...colored by something that his reeducation had not covered. It was the Vulcan way, he knew, to reject emotion and illogic so that one could make the best decisions at all times. The records he had read suggested that he had lived his life to this standard, and yet they also showed that he had attempted to pursue  _ kolinahr  _ but had not completed the discipline.

Spock breathed deeply and opened his eyes, ending his meditation session fourteen minutes earlier than he normally did. Yesterday, he had remembered a habit of his that had not been included in any of the records he had read, a kind of moving meditation that he believed would be better for calming the disorder in his mind.

He rose from his meditation mat in a fluid motion and crossed the small room to the bookshelf that stood opposite his bed. His motor control had been one of the very first things that he had mastered, his body remembering that which his mind could not.

The majority of the shelf was occupied by scrolls and books written in Vulkhansu. They contained information on a wide variety of subjects pertaining to the culture, history, and development of Vulcan, and he had read them all several times over the past two weeks. Two days ago, however, seven new volumes had appeared on the shelves. These books were written in Federation Standard, their covers and pages worn and battered in a way the others were not. Inside each was a note, written in a hand that was both familiar and foreign. Six of the inscriptions had been written and signed by his mother. The seventh carried no signature, and yet Spock knew without question that it had been written by Jim.

Jim. Admiral James Tiberius Kirk, former Captain of the USS Enterprise, a man Spock had served under for several years. Why, then, when he had first woken, had ‘Jim’ been the first word to fall from his lips? Surely he had addressed his superior officer by his rank or proper name when they had served together. 

He blinked once to clear his mind before settling cross-legged onto the ground in front of the bookshelf, his white robes brushing across the cool tiles. As he did so the feeling that this was not the first time he had done something like this washed over him. He allowed the feeling to spread throughout his being and linger there for one second, two, three, and then he pushed it back and set to work.

First, he pulled all of the books and scrolls down from the shelf and stacked them into even piles around him. For twenty-eight seconds he studied them, analyzing their various properties before deciding how he would organize them. Then he rearranged the stacks, sorting the books in Vulkhansu into one, the scrolls into another, and the seven books in Standard into the final stack. 

He moved slowly, each movement deliberate as he placed the scrolls back on the shelf in alphabetical order by their dominant topic. As he did so, he allowed his mind to wander, his thoughts drifting in and out of focus. 

Ever since he had awoken from the Fal-tor-pan, his mind had been slowly reassembling itself, like a puzzle, working from the edges of the definition of his being toward the center. That puzzle was largely complete now, but there were pieces of it that still lacked definition. He had matched the colors and shapes, but the image was still disjointed. There was something he was missing. Or someone.

Once the scrolls were arranged, he moved on to the books in Vulkhansu, their covers familiar under his fingers after the weeks he had spent in this room reading and rereading.

The missing pieces of his puzzle had something to do with the  _ Enterprise  _ and her crew, specifically her captain. There was no logic in what they had done for him. They had sacrificed their safety and quite likely their careers on his behalf without knowing that the fal-tor-pan would succeed, and Jim had been willing and ready to risk just as much simply to retrieve his body. 

Their actions had gone beyond the duty that Starfleet officers had to their fallen comrades. It defied logic, and yet both the reports and memories that had been steadily returning told him that this crew, these people, had taken similar risks before. They would do anything for one another, and for him. 

On the shelf, he had finished ordering the books, and he automatically reached for the last stack before pausing to actually look at them. Unlike the pristine spines of the temple books, these were cracked and worn, the cloth on one of them torn at the bottom. Despite their damage, however, it was obvious that they had been treasured by their previous owners and read numerous times. The pages were worn and gave off a calming, musky smell as he thumbed through them. Where the temple books were informational in nature, these existed to tell stories. Stories of reluctant bravery and enduring hope and hard-won love. 

He placed the books on the shelf reverently one by one, and as he did so the face of the admiral seemed to swim in his mind. His smile had always been brilliantly blinding, like looking into the sun. 

As the last book slid into place, a deep calm settled over him, seeping into the corners of his mind as the puzzle pieces finally clicked together. He stood, his fingers lingering on the spine of the book Jim had gifted for a moment longer before he turned away. He needed to find the head priestess and inform her and his father that he would be returning with the crew of the  _ Enterprise _ to Earth.

_. . . _

_ Rejecting the Vulcan Embassy  _

The aromas that swirled through the air of the small kitchen where Spock stood were relaxing. Nothing was being made, currently, but the smell of meals past and the various seasonings in the cupboards mingled in the air to create a blend of smells he was certain his husband would have unable to detect. As he breathed them in, he felt the muscles in his shoulders and back loosen slightly, and he allowed himself a small sigh of relief. He had intended only to make himself a cup of tea before continuing to his regular after-work meditation, but as he moved around the room he knew his mind was not still enough to facilitate a depth of meditation that would be useful to him after the events of today. 

He leaned against one counter and sipped carefully at his tea. It was a new blend, one that Jim had purchased on a whim after their last visit to Vulcan, and Spock found he enjoyed the mild flavor. Across from him were the two cupboards where he and Jim kept the various seasonings that went into the meals they often made together. 

Almost before he registered giving his limbs the order to move, he was taking the few steps across the room and setting down his cup before opening the doors to the cupboards and taking out the seasonings within. It had been seven months and twenty-six days since he had last felt the need to utilize this moving meditation, but his mind took to it again with ease, sorting the seasonings first by their planet of origin and then by their designation as either a spice, an herb, or a blend. 

He had just finished separating all of the Vulcan seasonings when the door to the apartment opened and closed. He glanced to the side and was met with the sight of his husband tugging off his long overcoat and hanging it up before toeing off his shoes. 

“ _ Na'shaya ha-kel, ashayam.” ***** _

Jim looked up, eyebrows raising in surprise. “I thought you would be meditating by now,” he said as he pulled off his uniform coat and flung it haphazardly over the chair that sat in the entryway. Then he stopped as he noticed the seasonings that covered the counter. “What happened?” He had stepped up behind Spock, arms wrapped around his waist and chin resting on his shoulder.

“I was unaware there was a prerequisite for sorting the cupboard,” Spock replied, relaxing fractionally into his t’hy’la’s embrace. 

Spock felt amusement trickle across their bond. “There isn’t, but you tend to organize our things when something has you too worked up to meditate. If you want me to drop it, I will, but I’m happy to listen.”

As always, his bondmate was exceptionally perceptive. “Ambassador Stenik spoke with me after my lecture today.”

“You mean he cornered you,” Jim corrected as he released Spock from his embrace and stepped to the side, beginning to separate the few seasonings from Risa that they had purchased from the rest. 

Spock inclined his head. The ambassador had waited until all his students had left and then stepped in just before Spock had intended to depart for the day. “He once more offered me a position with the embassy, this time as an ambassador specializing in First Contacts.”

Jim hummed as he handed him the last of the Risian seasonings. “That would mean being posted on a starship or a starbase. The  _ Saratoga _ ?”

Spock accepted the small container and placed it in the smallest pile before turning his attention back to the cupboard. The Risian seasonings were rarely used, so it would be logical to place them at the top of the cupboard, making the seasonings from Vulcan and Earth more accessible. 

“Yes. I declined, of course, and the ambassador asked for the logic in my decision,” Spock stated, beginning to replace the seasonings on the shelves. “I informed him as I have in the past that I have no desire to leave Earth while you are still bound to it. Additionally, I find my position at the Academy to be a rewarding one, and I believe it to be the best use of my skill set at this time.”

Jim chuckled, and the sound warmed Spock to his bones. “I take it Stenik didn’t like that response.”

“He did not. He, and the majority of the Embassy, believe that my past service to Starfleet and my half-Vulcan nature put me in a position to serve the Vulcan people best among the stars.” If Jim heard the faint undercurrent of guilt in his voice, he didn’t mention it. Instead, he helped Spock replace the Vulcan seasonings in the cabinet, standing on his toes to do so at times. 

Two minutes and thirty-nine seconds passed in comfortable silence. Once all of the seasonings were back in the cabinet, Spock turned to his husband, who was gazing at him with an unreadable expression in his honey eyes. 

“No, Jim.”

His husband’s lips spread into a grin, and he leaned back on the counter, arms crossed in front of him. “I haven’t said anything yet.”

“You were going to suggest that, if it is what I desire, I take the position I have been offered.” 

Jim shrugged. “If it’s what you want, I don’t want to stand in the way of it. I’d even resign my position at the Academy if I could come with you.”

Love surged through Spock, and he allowed it to seep into the bond, making it glow brightly in both their minds. “I know you would. However, I find myself more than content here.” As much as he had enjoyed his time on the  _ Enterprise _ and among the stars, settling into a domestic life with Jim had brought him a joy he had not known was possible. He was in no hurry to give that up.

Jim’s smile widened and his eyes took on a gleam that told Spock his husband had mischief in mind. “The Embassy and the Academy are holding a joint dinner party in a few weeks, aren’t they?”

Spock nodded.

“We should go. It’ll give me a chance to  _ persuade _ Senik to leave you alone for at least a few more years,” Jim declared, sending an image of the two of them exchanging an  _ ozh’esta _ in front of the ambassador. 

“Jim,” Spock admonished, but there was no real heat in his tone. 

“You know you love me.”

“Endlessly.”

Jim pushed away from the counter and wrapped Spock in another embrace, one he eagerly returned. “Seriously, though,” Jim said, pulling away just enough to meet Spock’s eyes, “if Senik bothers you anymore, let me know. I am more than happy to play the illogical human if it’ll get him off your back.”

Spock closed the short distance between their lips, kissing his husband softly. “I will.” Jim smiled up at him, and Spock felt a sense of calm belonging flood his entire being. No, he would not wish to be anywhere in the universe but here at this man’s side. 

***"Welcome home, Beloved."**

**Author's Note:**

> What did you think? Writing almost an entire one-shot from Spock's POV without any dialogue is probably not one of the best ideas I've had, but I think it turned out okay. 
> 
> If you wanna come yell at me on Tumblr, you can find me at @herenya-writes. Thanks for reading!


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